


Inflection Point

by vampireisthenewblack



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dreams, Father/Son Incest, Incest, M/M, Monster of the Week, Post 3B AU, Post Nogitsune, post-season 3b, stilinskicest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-01-23 23:19:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1583093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampireisthenewblack/pseuds/vampireisthenewblack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a forest in his bedroom, sunlight lancing down through the leaves in bright shards that spill out over the floor like honey. He leans against a tree, the bark beneath his hands feeling so real that he has to touch each fingertip to his thumb to be sure. His heart pounds in his ears, sweat beads on his brow. It's not wrong here, in his dreams, and he can turn into the shuddering breath at his ear, close his eyes and feel that damp warmth on his cheek and not hate himself for loving it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Sept 16 2015] - currently on hiatus, until I get my angsty incest mojo back. I love this fic and haven't given up. Bear with me :) Subscribe to be notified when I pick it up again.
> 
> Thanks go to [venis_envy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/venis_envy) for inflicting logic on me, and to [footloose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/footloose) for the title help.
> 
> This fic ignores the final few scenes of 3b and beyond.

"Sometimes I think it's still there," Stiles says. "That maybe it's not gone." He stares down at his hands, drags dirt out from under his thumbnail with the zipper of his backpack, wipes it on his pants before looking up. "Or it left something behind. Something wrong."

Morrell stares back at him, face almost blank, just a hint of curiosity in her eyes. "What makes you think that, Stiles?"

Stiles chews his lip. He turns his head away, because he can't look her in the eye when he speaks. "I want things," he says. "Things you're not supposed to want."

* * *

Stiles thinks back to a year ago. This time no one bats an eyelid when Scott catches the ball and sends it speeding into the net. Coach yawns and waves Stiles up.

There's a moment, a tiny flicker of memory, and Stiles looks down at the gloved hands wrapped around his stick and sees them bare and slick with blood. He shouldn't know what that feels like, but he does. How hot it is when it's pumping out of a living human body, how hard it is to clean out of all the creases in his skin and from between his fingers.

" _Stilinski_ ," Coach yells as the ball narrowly misses Stiles' head. "Get the hell off the field."

He drops his stick in front of the bleachers and walks away, yanking off his gloves, letting them fall to the ground behind him.

There's a tug at the back of his shirt. "Stiles," Scott says as Stiles turns to face him. "What's wrong?"

Stiles could block out the memories if he wanted. He's repressed enough over the last twelve months to send him right back to Eichen House, he could do it again. But he doesn't push aside the memory of Scott's pain, the look in his eyes when the nogitsune twisted the blade in his stomach, when it taunted him. Stiles wants to know why. He needs to figure out what twisted thing it left behind that makes him want what he wants. "Nothing," he says.

"Come on," Scott says. "If you walk away now, you won't get on the team."

"Maybe I don't care."

Scott frowns. "You wanna be on the team. I know you do."

"You don't know anything about what I want, Scott." Stiles turns away, keeps walking toward the locker room. "You don't want to."

* * *

Stiles isn't afraid to go to sleep. The nightmares are gone, there are no riddles, no nogitsune, no open doors. There's a mirror, but not seeing his own face in it is a relief.

There's a forest in his bedroom, sunlight lancing down through the leaves in bright shards that spill out over the floor like honey. He leans against a tree, the bark beneath his hands feeling so real that he has to touch each fingertip to his thumb to be sure. His heart pounds in his ears, sweat beads on his brow. It's not wrong here, in his dreams, and he can turn into the shuddering breath at his ear, close his eyes and feel that damp warmth on his cheek and not hate himself for loving it.

Strong hands hold his naked hips, pull him slowly back. Stiles gasps as he's stretched open, every time feeling like it's the first. It's a pulsing warmth, a thrum deep inside him as he's filled to bursting. "Please," he whispers as he turns his head to look over his shoulder. "Please."

Blue eyes stare back at him, dark and shining. "Tell me what you want, Stiles. I'll give you what you want."

Stiles drops his head, pushes out from the tree to take more. "Fuck me," he says. "Dad, please."

The same hands that wiped his tears when his mother died slide up his back and grip his shoulders. They're strong and firm, and they hold him in one place as his father pulls back, slow and smooth, then pushes inside again.

Stiles' moan echoes through the woods. "More," he begs. "Give it to me."

He gets lost in the push and pull, in the slide of skin against skin, in the kisses pressed to his neck and shoulders. It ends with a hot flood inside him, with a stillness and arms that wrap around him, with a hand on his dick that strokes until he comes in a shivering rush.

When Stiles opens his eyes he doesn't have to count his fingers to know he's awake. He's hard, slick with sweat, and he jerks off quickly, even though he hates himself for using the still fresh memory left behind by his dreams.

* * *

His father's hand rests on the back of Stiles' neck, thumb stroking up and down the side of his throat. "Nightmares?" his dad says. "They still bothering you?"

Stiles gives a quick shake of his head, not much more than a twitch that's as much to dislodge his father's hand on him as it is an answer. "No," he says, watching the slow drip of coffee into the pot. "Just couldn't sleep. Tired."

"Something wrong with your pillow?"

"My pillow's fine." Stiles gives his dad a sideways glance and twists out from under his hand. "I've just got a lot on my mind." He reaches for two coffee cups, fills them both before the coffee pot is full, takes his to the table and burns his mouth on the first sip.

"Lacrosse?" his dad says, stirring sugar into his cup. "You should reconsider. I'm sure Coach would let you back on the team. Seems to me like he'd be hungry for players with some experience this season."

"I played one game," Stiles mutters.

"You _won_ that game." The sheriff pulls his chair out, drags it around the table so when he sits, their elbows touch. Pushing his steaming cup into the center of the table, he twists in his seat, slides his hand up Stiles' arm, reaches out with the other hand and lifts Stiles' chin. "I'm really proud of you, you know that?"

Stiles nods, tries to duck his head again, but his dad won't let him.

"And you can talk to me, you know that, too, right?"

Stiles hesitates, nods again, but it's a lie. He turns his eyes away, but he can still feel his face burning.

"You might be surprised how much I understand, Stiles. I know you think I'm a bit clueless sometimes—"

"I don't," Stiles says.

His dad shrugs, smiles, slides the hand on his shoulder up to rest on his neck, and he pulls Stiles in close. "I love you, kiddo."

Stiles' heart beats loud in his ears, and his chest feels tight. He can't stop himself from inhaling his dad's clean, strong scent, but he hates the way his body yearns for more. This, all of this, it means love, and home, and family, but other things as well, new things. Things Stiles isn't supposed to let himself consider, but which are so hard to push away when they're tangled up in safety and relief.

He hugs his father back, gives him a quick squeeze before pulling away.

* * *

"I look in the mirror," Stiles says. "And there's nothing there."

"No reflection?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing. It's like I don't exist."

Morrell leans forward, steepling her fingers on the desk. "Tell me about your other dreams."

Stiles looks up sharply. "No."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally planned to post this in 3 parts, but I've said bollocks to that, and I'll be posting chapters as they come out, hence the wee '?' following 'Chapters' in the header now. There's a bit more story here than I originally envisioned, so I'm just going to roll with it :) I won't be offended if you wait till it's complete, it's certainly what I would do :)

Stiles looks up from his cereal bowl, across the table to where his father is nursing a steaming cup of coffee. "What?"

"I said, I'm taking the weekend off. I thought we could go camping in the preserve. Like we used to when you were younger. We don't spend enough time together these days." The sheriff pauses, lets out a soft chuckle. "When we're not—"

"Fighting off evil," Stiles says. "Right." He drops his spoon into his bowl. Milk splashes out, leaves a white streak on the back of his hand. Stiles stares at it for a moment as his father's words sink in. He lifts his head. "Wait. Camping? In the preserve? Are you crazy? Do you want to get eaten by monsters?"

His father snorts. "Don't you trust me to protect you?" He lifts his cup, takes a sip of his coffee and winces. "Do you want to invite Scott along? If it'll make you feel safer."

He's barely spoken to Scott since he walked off the Lacrosse field. Every time Scott looks at him he sees his face twisted in pain, hears his voice, broken and begging, and he can't believe Scott isn't thinking the same thing.

Stiles opens his mouth to reply, but no sound comes out. It would be safer to have Scott there, but it's not the creatures that might inhabit the woods he's afraid of.

As his gaze lingers on his dad's fingers wrapped around a coffee cup, he tells himself it's guilt that drives him to decline, that he owes the time solely to his father. Ultimately he knows it's far more cowardly and selfish than that.

He shakes his head. "Nah. It's fine. We'll go." He licks his lips, tries not to let the fact that his heart is racing show. "Just you and me." He can barely breathe, feels like something heavy is sitting on his chest as he's torn into too many pieces.

He closes his eyes and sees dappled sunlight on his father's skin.

* * *

"We need you," Coach says, quiet, under his breath as the rest of the class files out the door. Most of them won't hear. Some will. " _I_ need you."

"Coach—"

"I have freshmen on the team, Stilinski. _Freshmen_. I hate freshmen."

Stiles lifts his eyes from the floor, takes in the hopeful expression on Coach's face. He shakes his head. "Sorry," he says, and looks back down, shoves his hands deep in his pockets because he can feel the blood on them. "I can't."

Scott's waiting for him outside the door. Stiles meets his eyes, just for a moment, and then looks away. He keeps walking, and Scott doesn't follow.

* * *

Stiles trips over a root, falls onto his hands in the dirt and dry leaves. He counts his fingers out of habit.

"Come on," the sheriff says, hauling him to his feet. "This was a lot easier when you were ten."

"We're gonna get eaten by monsters," Stiles says, brushing himself off. "Werethings. Or bears. Or werebears. Are werebears a thing? 'Cos that would be bad." He's fairly sure they aren't, though if someone can be a werecoyote, anything's possible. Stiles hasn't had time to try and figure that one out yet.

His dad doesn't have to know there's not something bigger and scarier in the woods. Maybe Stiles can convince him to turn back. They shouldn't be out here. Not like this. Not alone.

"I'm not even going to ask when you got so pessimistic," the sheriff says, striding ahead.

* * *

There's a tent pitched over his father's bed. His father hovers above him, trailing soft, slow kisses over his face, never quite touching his lips. 

"Dad," Stiles says. "Please, Dad. I need—"

His father doesn't seem to hear him, and every way Stiles turns his head his dad avoids his mouth. 

Stiles grabs him by the shoulders, tries to make him look but he won't. "Dad, I need you," he says, finally catching his dad's lips.

The surface beneath him goes from soft mattress to hard ground. His father is no longer lying between his spread legs, but leaning over from the side. It's dark, so dark Stiles can't see but if he could he knows his father's eyes would be wide with shock because their lips are still pressed together, though his dad's hand is firm on Stiles' chest, slowly pushing him back down. 

"Oh god," Stiles says. He slumps to the ground, then rolls away and shucks off his sleeping bag before fumbling for the zipper to open the tent. 

"Stiles," his father says, hand coming down on Stiles' shoulder. "Stiles, it's okay."

But it's not. It's wrong, and there's something twisted inside Stiles, something that's broken, something sick left behind when the nogitsune split. 

He gets the zipper open, crawls out into damp leaves, pushes himself to his feet and starts to run. 

The moon is just a sliver and Stiles stumbles over his own feet. Barely awake, he crashes into trees, feels a low hanging branch whip across his cheek. His eyes water, tears running down his face unchecked because now his dad knows he came back from being trapped inside his own mind wrong. 

There's light behind him, heavy footfalls gaining. His father calls out his name in alarm. When Stiles falls, when he comes down hard on all fours, this time the light shines briefly on one hand, and Stiles counts five, but he wishes for six. 

Then his dad's arms are around him again, pulling him close, holding him like he did when he was so much smaller. "It's okay," his dad says. "It's okay."

"I'm sorry," Stiles says. "God, I'm so sorry."

His father presses his lips to Stiles' forehead, drags his fingers through Stiles' hair."I said, it's okay. I know. I've known for a while."

Stiles freezes. His heart skips a beat."What?"

"I watch you sleep, sometimes. I check on you. You talk."

Stiles gasps for air. He can't seem to get enough. "No. There's something wrong with me. Something got messed up—"

"I don't care," his father says. "You're alive, and you're Stiles, and I don't care. I just want you to be happy."

"Dad," Stiles whimpers, sinking into his father's arms, twisting his fingers into his father's shirt and screwing his eyes shut tight. He wants this, too much, wants to stay here where he's safe and forget about everything else. "I don't know if I can be."

* * *

Stiles sits in the tent, arms around his knees, and he stares into the darkness. His eyes hurt from crying, and he closes them as his father comes in behind him with the flashlight.

"Come on," his dad says, tugging on his arm. "Lie down. Get some sleep."

"Why are we even here?" Stiles says. "If you know the things I dream about, why did you even want to do this?"

"I hoped you'd talk to me," the sheriff says. He puts his hands on Stiles' shoulders, presses in behind him. "There's nothing you can't say to me."

"There's a lot I can't say to you." Stiles feels sick inside, his stomach twists with disgust, even as he fights the urge to push back, to wrap himself up in his father's arms and fall asleep with warm breath on the back of his neck. "The stuff in my head—"

"It's just you, Stiles. The nogitsune is gone. You're all that's left, and I don't give a crap what's right or wrong, because I thought I was gonna lose you. Hell, I thought I'd lost you." His hands slide down, grip Stiles' biceps, fingers biting in hard enough to bruise. He presses his lips to the back of Stiles' head. "But I didn't. I got you back, and I swear to god, Stiles, I will _not_ let the memory of it drive me away from you."

There's a lump in Stiles' throat he can't dislodge. He swallows anyway, licks a tear from his upper lip. "I'm sorry," he whispers, reaching back, laying his hand over his father's.

"Sleep," the sheriff says, and pulls Stiles down to the ground, wrapping an arm around his chest and pulling him close.

Stiles lies awake long after his father starts to snore. He's afraid he'll dream again, afraid his father will hear him talking. More than that, though, he's afraid to miss one moment of this, his dad's chest pressed to his back, his dad's knees pressed behind his own, his dad's arm, wrapped around him.

* * *

"We're fine," Stiles says. "Same as always."

"Would your dad agree?" Morrell asks. "If I asked him the same question?"

Stiles doesn't answer.

"Those few weeks, Stiles. They're bound to have had an effect on the relationship between you and your father. Bound to have either pushed you apart, or brought you closer. So which is it?"

"Both," Stiles says.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles fights for air, can't seem to fill his lungs. His hands, clenched into fists, press against his father's bare back, trying to pull him closer, but his fingers won't do as they're told.

"It's okay," the sheriff says. "You can let go. Just let go." He lifts his head, looks down into Stiles' eyes.

Stiles gasps. It's just his father's face, as familiar as his own, and yet it's as if he hasn't seen it in months.

* * *

Stiles wakes in his father's bed. Curled into him, head tucked into his dad's chest.

He doesn't remember coming in during the night, he never does. He figures he's sleepwalking again, but as long as he's sleepwalking down the hall and not out into the woods alone, it's not something he's prepared to think too much about.

It's warm and safe here, and a torturous kind of bliss as he listens to his father's heart as it beats, slow and steady. It almost feels like they're a part of each other, and if Stiles could push away reality he knows he could be happy.

But there's a fear that lingers on the edge of his consciousness, that his father will wake and see how twisted and sick Stiles really is. That his dad will send him away, and Stiles will be alone.

He slips out before his father stirs.

* * *

"Isolation isn't healthy."

Stiles knows this, but he's felt the pain of so many of the people he cares about. He's been the cause of it. "I don't feel comfortable," he says. "All I ever do is remember."

Morrell lifts her chin. "You remember doing evil things."

He drops his eyes and says nothing.

"Then do something good."

"Like what? There's plenty of werewolves in this town. I'll just get in the way."

"Do something only you can do." She shifts in her chair, glances at the clock.

"I'm not joining the team," Stiles says.

Morrell's lips twitch. "Time's up."

* * *

The sheriff's arm tightens around Stiles' waist as he tries to slip free without waking him. Stiles freezes, closes his eyes tight, tucks his chin into his chest. He just has to wait, hope his father goes back to sleep because it's not dawn yet.

But his dad's breathing doesn't even out, he doesn't relax and go limp again. Instead, he nuzzles into the top of Stiles' head, reaches a hand between them and lifts Stiles' chin.

"Look at me."

A single tear escapes before he opens his eyes. His dad's face is etched with concern. Stiles closes his eyes again.

"Let go," his dad says, echoing a dream. "Tell me what you need."

Stiles' heart beats so hard he thinks it might pound right out of his chest. His lungs burn with the effort it takes to keep his breathing normal. He can't do it, gasps for air, opens his eyes as he starts to panic.

"Shh," his father says, drops his lips to Stiles' forehead. They're soft and warm, they linger. "Tell me what you need, Stiles."

"I—" The words stick in his throat. He shakes with the effort it takes not to just show his dad what he wants. It's one thing to dream about it, another completely to want it, to need it so badly it feels like he might die without it.

"Come on, kiddo," his father says. He pulls away, wraps his hand around the side of Stiles' face, thumb tracing Stiles' cheekbone. "Let me help you."

Stiles licks his lips.

The concern on his father's face shifts as his eyes are drawn down. Something like determination slips in, then he tips Stiles' head back further.

Stiles gasps, opens his mouth as his father's lips come down on his own. "Dad," he murmurs, and then he can say nothing at all. His mind is wiped clean, and there's a rushing in his ears that blocks out everything. He twists his fingers into his father's t-shirt and holds on.

A warm flush moves over Stiles' skin. The kiss is little more than chaste, the barest skim of his father's tongue over Stiles' lower lip the only thing that takes it past innocent, but still, when his dad pulls away, Stiles is left panting and hard, his face hot, his heart pounding wildly.

"Go get in the shower," the sheriff says.

* * *

"Thanks for doing this."

Stiles blinks and turns his eyes from the mesmerizing flames. "What?"

Lydia takes her hands off the log they share as a seat, brushes them off and folds them in her lap. "For coming with me." A smile plays at the edge of her lips and she looks up at the stars. "For not acting like it's a date."

"Huh," Stiles says, and wonders when he stopped wanting that from her. He's got a feeling it happened a long time ago. "No problem. We're friends, right?"

She grins and turns back to the fire, holds her hands out to warm them.

They're surrounded by people. The lacrosse team, hangers on, and crashers like themselves. It's a team spirit thing they do every year before the games start for the season, but it's lacking spirit. Too many people have been touched by the events of the past few months, too many people are gone.

Across the flames, Scott catches Stiles' eyes for a moment. He looks puzzled, then curious, glances toward Lydia and back again. Stiles shrugs, mouths 'it's not like that', and looks away before the echo of Scott's pleas start playing on a loop in his mind.

It's easier to sink into more recent memories as he stares into the licking fire.

Shapes form among the coals and explode into sparks as someone throws more logs on top. Stiles drags his finger across his lower lip, closes his eyes.

When he opens them, the fire has settled. Lydia leans away from him, speaking to someone on the next log over. Stiles barely registers who. She's there, and that's all he needs to know. Instead, his eyes blur as he stares at the base of the fire and allows himself to look forward to going home.

He tells himself it's the heat that makes his skin burn, and not the fear that someone will know just by looking at him that he's thinking of his father, his father's bed, his father's kiss.

"Stilinski? What am I seeing here? Am I dreaming? 'Cause this is like a dream come true."

Stiles wrenches his neck as he twists to find Finstock crouched behind his log-bench. "Coach, no," he stammers. "I'm not—"

"But you're _here_." Coach flicks his eyes to Lydia and a smile spreads over his face. " _Someone_ wants you back on the team..."

Stiles purses his lips and shakes his head.

The coach seems to deflate, drops to his knees in the dirt. "Come on, Stilinski. What do I have to do to convince you?" He scans the students gathered around the fire. "Don't you want friends, kid? Don't you wanna be popular?"

"I don't care," Stiles says. He pushes himself to his feet, spares a glance for Lydia as she looks up at him in concern, and he's about to walk off when Finstock's hand clamps down on his wrist.

"Your dad," Coach says.

Something tightens around Stiles' lungs, makes it hard to breathe. "What?"

"He came to every game." Coach almost whispers the words, Stiles has to strain to hear them. "Even when all you ever did was warm the bench. He was _proud_ that his son was on the team. Even I could see it, and I don't care about shit like that."

Stiles shakes his head, any words he might have wanted to say sticking in his throat.

"Think about it," Coach says. "Just think."

* * *

Stiles stares into the flames again. His thoughts are miles away, further back than the past that's been haunting him. He can still feel the sting of the cuts and bruises, and the warmth of his father's words.

Stiles has never been further from 'hero' than he is right now. He's afraid of everything. The look in his best friend's eyes, the weight of lives lost because he wasn't strong enough to fight the evil that took over his body and trapped him inside his own mind. 

Sometimes he can forget all that, though. Small moments when his father looks at him like he used to. Like he's proud, despite everything that's happened, even if Stiles doesn't deserve it. 

As he wonders, the flames dance among the coals at the base of the fire. Shapes coalesce and merge, then dissolve into nothing. 

Something twists in there, the flames playing tricks on his eyes as they spiral and come together to form a creature. It dances across the coals, seems to swim through the flame.

And emerges, a living thing, from the ash at the edge of the pit.

Large black eyes, shining and empty, stare up at Stiles. The wide mouth opens, a fat tongue licks out, then the jaw snaps shut.

Stiles squawks, his whole body jerks, and he falls backward over the log, flailing and scrambling to get away.

Laughter ripples softly around him, and Lydia comes into view. She hauls on his arm, pulls him to his feet.

"Did you see it?" he asks. "Something came out of the fire."

Her forehead creases, but there's a small smile on her lips. She lifts an eyebrow. "Something?"

His eyes track the ground around them, stare at the point the creature appeared and look for signs. "It was..." He looks up. "A lizard or something."

"Oh," Lydia says. "Probably a salamander. They hide in the logs. You'd run away, too, if someone put your bed on the fire."

Stiles blinks, remembering the spiraling flames that seemed to form the creature out of nothing.

"People used to think they were magical," Lydia says as she tugs Stiles back to the log and pulls him down. "That fire created them, and they were immune to the flames."

"Huh," Stiles says. He crosses his arms over his chest and tries to will away the frantic beating of his heart.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♥ to venis_envy.

The house is dark and silent. Stiles finds a note stuck to the fridge.

_Called into an emergency,_ it reads. _Tell you all about it in the morning._

He stands in his bedroom doorway, stares at his own empty bed.

The covers are thrown back. His pillow lies askew, rumpled and squashed as though he fought with it in his sleep before he got up and climbed into bed with his father. He knows it will happen again, it's been at least a week since he woke in his own room.

He grabs his pillow and takes it into the other bedroom, falls asleep surrounded by his father's scent. 

* * *

Sunlight falls warm over bare skin, glows through closed eyelids. There's a breeze, but it's the soft drag of a fingertip circling his nipple that raises goosebumps.

It's replaced by a wet mouth, and Stiles arches into the tongue flicking over him. "Yes," he says, as a hand slides down the inside of his thigh. "Want you, please."

Slick fingers push at him, slide inside. Stiles groans at the feeling of fullness and spreads his legs wide. "I want everything," he says. "I want you."

It doesn't seem strange, at first, to hear his father say his name. Stiles rocks in pleasure, moans and twists, even though the sun grows cold and he can't move his legs.

"Stiles, wake up."

He jolts into consciousness, blind except for the light from the hall. His father is a looming outline, bent over with a hand on his shoulder.

"You're dreaming, Stiles," his dad says.

Stiles gasps, kicks at the twisted sheets that trap his legs. He reaches out as his father crouches by the bed, twists his fingers into his shirt. "God," he chokes, unable to fight the desperate arousal that lingers and makes him hard. "Oh my god."

"It's okay," his dad says, and strokes his hair until he calms, until his eyes adjust and he can see the crease between his father's eyebrows as he frowns. "What are you doing here, Stiles?"

Stiles is suddenly cold as a shiver runs through him. "Sorry," he says, starts to push away, twists his fingers into his pillow to pull it to him. "Sorry, I'll go."

"It's okay, Stiles. It's fine." The sheriff fingers the edge of Stiles' pillow. "You didn't sleepwalk this time, did you?"

Stiles shakes his head. He clutches his pillow to his chest, pulls his knees up. He knows he should leave, but he can't move.

His father rises to his feet, and his fingers go to the buttons of his shirt. They slide down the front, quick and efficient, and the shirt falls over the back of a chair. The pants follow.

Stiles can't breathe. He's rock hard, leaking into his pajama pants.

"Lie down," his father says. "Go to sleep."

He's shaking as his dad slips in under the covers and presses close to his back.

"Shhh, it's okay. Just go to sleep."

Stiles is so hard it hurts. He slides his hand up the arm wrapped around his chest. "Dad," he gasps. "Oh god, _please_."

A shuddering breath is expelled against the back of Stiles' neck, then warm lips touch his skin. "Please, Stiles. Just go to sleep."

* * *

Stiles is alone when he wakes. He still counts his fingers to make sure it's real.

His father makes noise in the kitchen downstairs. Stiles imagines the scent of bacon and eggs and pancakes, like Saturday morning breakfasts when he was younger, before the fear of losing his dad as well made him ban bacon from the house.

He remembers the night before, lying awake for what felt like hours, trying to convince himself that it was simply the covers bunched between them, that his father wasn't hard against the back of his thigh.

He remembers begging to be touched.

He jerks off quickly in the bathroom, then brushes his teeth before he goes downstairs.

* * *

"So," his dad says over a breakfast of forbidden bacon and eggs. "We had a guy burn to death in the cells last night."

Stiles chokes on a mouthful, coughs as his eyes stream with tears. "He did what now?"

His father sighs. "Nothing left but his boots. Would you know anything about that?"

Stiles swallows and stares. "I—" The words stick in his throat as his lungs contract, pushing out air, not letting anymore in. He's used to looking into everyone's eyes and seeing the nogitsune reflected back at him, and it's hard to shake the idea that this is an accusation.

He forces himself to look into his father's eyes. He's worried, even afraid, but he's not afraid of Stiles.

Stiles sucks in air, breathes deep. He shakes his head. "Sounds like spontaneous human combustion, but it's not something I've seen before. What did you find?"

The sheriff shakes his head. "Nothing. No obvious point of ignition. No one else was in there. The guy didn't even have matches on him." He drags his knife through an egg and yolk spills onto his plate. "He didn't set _himself_ on fire. So what happened?"

"Deaton," Stiles says. "He might know something. But he's just as likely to keep stuff to himself as he is to tell you the truth."

"Okay." The sheriff nods. "I'll go see him. But if you think of anything— If _anything_ happens, you know you can tell me, right?"

Stiles looks up from his breakfast. The same thing happens that happens any time he looks at his father lately: his skin warms, his pulse speeds up, it's harder to breathe. "Yeah. Yeah, of course."

They eat in silence for long moments, the only sound the scraping of cutlery on plates. The sheriff finishes first, pushes his plate away, sits back in his chair and sighs. "So, how'd it go last night?"

Stiles keeps his eyes on his plate and shrugs. "We sat around the fire." He shudders as he thinks of the man in the cell burning while he was warming his hands. "Coach tried to guilt me into joining the team again."

"You were asking for it, crashing the party like that. But it was a nice thing to do. I hope Lydia appreciates you going with her."

Her name hangs in the air with a note of expectation. "It wasn't a date," Stiles says.

"I know." His dad reaches across the table, but aborts the gesture before his fingers can touch Stiles' hand. "Look at me."

Stiles looks up, feels his heart skip a beat.

"I've figured that much out. But she'd be good for you, Stiles. You should—"

"No." He swallows past the lump in his throat, tries to fight the panic, the urge to reach out and stop his father from pushing him away. "I don't want that with her. Not anymore."

They stare at each other. Stiles thinks his father should be able to hear his heartbeat as it thunders in his chest.

Then his dad nods his head. "Okay." He drags his teeth over his lower lip as his eyes dart around the room. "I knew that." He starts breathing hard, then presses his fist to his lips. "What am I doing?" His eyes flick up to Stiles', pleading, afraid. "What the hell am I doing?"

Stiles' chair scrapes across the floor and topples over as he pushes from the table in a desperate need to get away. Even though he knows it's wrong, knows he's completely fucked up, he can't hear his father tell him that, tell him that he can't feel safe in his arms anymore, that he can't—

His dad's fingers wrap around his wrist and halt him in his tracks. He backs up against the kitchen door, hangs his head and tries to wrap his arms around himself.

"No," his dad says, cupping Stiles' cheek in his hand, tipping his head up. "Please, kid. Don't hide from me. You don't ever have to hide from me, okay?" He drops a kiss to Stiles' forehead, lips lingering, warm, on his skin. "I'll do anything for you, do you hear me?" He drags his lips down over the tip of Stiles' nose, to brush, barely there, over his mouth. "But I need you to talk to me, tell me the truth."

Stiles whines into it when his father kisses him properly, lips and tongue and panting breaths.

"Is this what you want?" The sheriff's breath is hot on Stiles' skin, on his throat. "Is it really what you want? Do you want _this_?"

Another kiss, deep and hot enough to take Stiles' breath away. " _Yes_ ," Stiles moans, wrapping his arms around his father's neck and arching against him. "Yes, I want it, I want you."

His dad drops his head to Stiles' shoulder, takes slow, deep breaths. "If anyone knew—"

"They won't," Stiles says.

The sheriff lifts his head. He kisses Stiles again, slower this time, gentle and sweet. "This is as far as it goes." Another kiss. "And at night. I need to know that you're safe. But I'm your father, and I won't—" He closes his eyes. "This is as far as it goes, okay?"

If it's all he can get, Stiles will take it. Being able to sleep in his father's arms, feeling safe there, knowing he's loved. It's far better than what he deserves, far better than being pushed away because he's broken. "Yeah," he says. "Okay."

* * *

"Stiles, if you don't talk to me, I can't help you."

Stiles shrugs and looks out the window.

Morrell sighs, leans back in her chair. "Fine. The mirror, then. Are you still dreaming about the mirror?"

After a long moment, Stiles answers. "There's something there, but I can't make it out. It doesn't matter. I don't need to see it."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not me."

**Author's Note:**

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